


Take me home where I belong

by guti



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Cooking, M/M, certain people fucking off to spain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 10:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6048463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/pseuds/guti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I wasn’t going to leave without saying goodbye,” Gary says.  Apparently the moment is right to pick up where they’d left off before.  Jamie looks up from the vegetables and eyes him a moment.  Gary frowns, almost scolded.  “I wouldn’t do that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take me home where I belong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redandgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/gifts).



The news hits Jamie hard, shakes him up enough that he has to take a minute to remind himself that he knows how to breathe, that he isn't in any real danger of choking on his own tongue or otherwise falling apart completely. Not really, anyways. He hasn’t got any right to an overreaction, which is what he tells himself as he jots off a clever little tweet and goes about his day. Hard as the news hits him, he’s determined not to make a thing of it, and mostly he manages that just fine, up until the very moment when his phone starts ringing and he spots _the_ Manc’s name on the screen. Without thinking, he answers it.

“Were you gonna mention it at all?” He asks, straight out of the gate, not even waiting to hear why Gary’s called before launching into the conversation proper. He’s thought about calling Gary all day, even started to dial his number once or twice before thinking better of it and pocketing the damned phone before he made an ass of himself. Luckily for him, he can make an ass of himself whether or not he’s the one who placed the call to begin with. “Or were you just planning to vanish into the night, without so much as a word?”

For his part, Gary seems to have been expecting it. “I was going to tell you,” he answers, sounding distant and smaller than usual. It makes Jamie frown. “That’s why I was calling now, actually. To tell you that I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Well thanks so much, mate. Really appreciate the head’s up after it’s already all over every paper on the planet.” Jamie’s voice wavers a little, cracking, sad. He hates that he can’t keep those strains of feeling from coloring his every word, but then when could he ever? He sighs, listens over the line as Gary sighs too, then tries again. “I’m happy for you. You’ll be brilliant, I know you will. I only wish you’d told me first that you were leaving before it hit the press.”

“It isn’t like that,” Gary protests softly. “It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t—” 

“And now you’re leaving for Spain, more or less without even saying goodbye.”

“I’m not,” he insists. “I’m not leaving without saying goodbye.”

“Is this meant to be it, then?” Jamie asks. “Is this all the goodbye I get, Gaz?”

There’s an uncomfortable silence that falls over them and seems to last an eternity before Gary speaks up, unsettles everything all over again. “You can come to mine. If you like.”

Jamie makes a small noise in the back of his throat then glances to the clock on the wall. “I’ll be there in an hour,” he says, and with that he hangs up the phone.

He can count the number of times they’ve fucked on one hand, and he does so unwittingly on the drive over. Once, about three months back, at Gary’s place, in Gary’s bed. Twice over the spring and summer, both times at his. Once last fall, near the start of the season, in a hotel room after a late night at the studio. And once… well, the first time was so long ago, it hardly even mattered when or where it was. Jamie’d tried to forget it’d even happened, and they’d gone so long without ever bringing it up that he sometimes imagined that it had only happened in a dream. Not that it had been bad or anything, rather it was a tough pill to swallow, that. Shagging a Manc was bad enough. Shagging _the_ Manc was on a whole other level, and he was certain Gary felt the same way about him. A one and done is what it was, until a decade or so later when all the bickering and near blows came to a roaring head and he had Gaz bent over the foot of a hotel bed, fucking his brains out.

Mostly, though, when they’re together and feeling it they just snog. They kiss. They spend a lot of time just kissing. And as much as Jamie likes to fuck, he’s more than alright with making out. There’s something dare he say _romantic_ about stealing off to the dressing room and bolting the door so they could frantically kiss each other for three minutes between rehearsals.

Sometimes they’d get themselves off too, wanking together in the shower or in bed or on the phone. Sometimes Gary gives him a hand job, and he’s gotten a blow job or two (given Gary a few himself.) But it’s nothing serious enough to warrant feelings of sorrow or heartbreak at the prospect of losing Gary Neville.

Gary only makes him wait outside for about thirty seconds or so and lets him in without any comment. It’s not too late yet, still early evening, but in the haze of the winter everything seems dreary and dark. Jamie has a grocery bag with him and Gary stares at it, eyes narrowed as he watches the other man tromp straight into his kitchen. 

“What’ve you got there?” He asks, following a step or two behind.

“I’m making you dinner,” Jamie says, and that seems to be the end of it, for the moment anyway. He sets the bag on the counter and makes himself right at home, opening up cabinets and drawers on a search for the proper utensils. Gary steals a peek inside the bag and is perplexed at what he finds there. Jamie is perceptive, shaking his head in admonishment as he pulls a massive pot out of one of the cupboards. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll like it. Now how’s about you make yourself useful and unpack it for me.”

Gary has little choice it seems but to take his word for it and help Jamie cook. He unloads and inspects each of the items, brows creasing as he places each one down on the counter. Chuck steak, an onion, a swede, some carrots potatoes, little jars of bay leaves and thyme, a liter carton of beef stock, a bottle of bitters. He’s not sure what to make of any of it and is about to say as much when Jamie slides up next to him with a bottle of olive oil in one hand and a slightly warped wooden cutting board in the other.

“You know you’re not supposed to but this through the machine,” he says, setting the board down on the counter. Gary gives him a look, then shrugs. “Not that you know what you’re doing around here anyways. Go find me a peeler and start on these vegetables, will you?”

Before Gary can say much else, the project is underway. He offers to help, in a useless sort of way, but it’s quickly resolved that the best way for him to be assist is to stay out of the way. So he hops up on the counter beside Jamie’s cutting board and watches intently as Jamie carefully peels and chops all the vegetables.

“I wasn’t going to leave without saying goodbye,” Gary says. Apparently the moment is right to pick up where they’d left off before. Jamie looks up from the vegetables and eyes him a moment. Gary frowns, almost scolded. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“I shouldn’t have had to read about it in the Mail,” Jamie replies, chopping away at a carrot. “You could’ve phoned me before it got out.”

“That’s not how it worked out, Carra,” Gary sighs. He looks up at the ceiling and shakes his head. “It wasn’t my decision to go straight to the press with it. The club did that on their own.” 

It sounds so hollow to Jamie’s ears, like there’s more to the excuse than that, like what Gary really means to say is that on the list of people he’d needed to inform about his decision to fuck off to Spain, Jamie Carragher ranked somewhere near the bottom. He has in his head, for a second or two, the idea to say as much, to accuse Gary of being selfish, of being hurtful, of being an utter cunt about everything regarding the two of them, from start to this, the end. But the idea fades quickly when he turns his head just slightly and catches sight of the pale skin of Gary’s forearm resting on his thigh, perched on the countertop beside him, staring at him with a sort of pleading look. He’s still angry. He’s still hurt. But he sets that all aside and pick up one of the chopped pieces of carrot and holds it up toward Gary’s mouth. Gary stares at him, not so much hesitant as he is wholly unsure of what to do until he seems to say ‘sod it’ and leans forward to pluck the carrot out of Jamie’s fingers with just his teeth.

Their eyes meet and Jamie cracks a smile, though he can’t banish all the sorrow from his eyes. Neither can Gary, now that he really looks, but they’re both smiling now, and the tension that could be cut with a knife seems to soften, just like it always does between them in the end. Forever it’s been like this. Push, push, push. Push until there’s nothing left and something has to give, push until one of them makes the gesture, sends out the signal that it’s okay. It’s okay. They don’t have to butt heads all the time. It’s alright to be friends. It’s alright just to be.

Jamie sets the knife down and inches toward Gary, and before he realizes it he’s standing there between his knees. Gary’s hands are somehow on Jamie’s shoulders, just resting there, keeping him there, like he doesn’t want him to leave. They don’t say anything at first, just kind of linger in that proximity, letting that odd familiar intimacy take over for a moment. But then Jamie speaks, and the spell between them somehow doesn’t break. “You’re going to be bloody brilliant.”

Gary laughs. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but Jamie doesn’t mind. He knows his smile hasn’t reached his own eyes either. It can’t. In spite of everything he’s told himself about not letting himself get all torn up or feel blue, he’s gone and done it. He looks at Gary, thinks about what it means, now that he’s as good as gone, and damn it, all Jamie wants to do is cry. And he’s not even the sort to do a thing like that. He’s not the sort to feel anything for any Manc at all, let alone _the_ Manc.

“You’ll root for me then?” Gary asks, his hands still on Jamie’s shoulders. He hadn’t noticed at first, but Gary’s been pressing his fingertips in, kneading into his back like a kitten.

“Can’t, mate. Sorry.”

Gary stares at him, incredulous, like he can’t believe Jamie can’t be bothered to support his team. His look of disbelief is met by Jamie’s piercing laughter.

“I always liked Barcelona better,” he says, teasing. Gary leans forward then and kisses him. Jamie kisses him back.

Dinner winds up taking longer to make than usual, which is saying something since the recipe requires a couple of hours to make anyway. The preparation is paused so they can strip off their clothes and frantically fuck on the floor like a pair of animals, driven wild by desperate need and something like love. After they’ve cleaned up, Jamie finishes preparing their meal, and as it slowly cooks on the stove he and Gary sit on the sofa and just… talk.

“Miss me, Carra?” Gary asks. He’s got Jamie in his arms, pulled close enough that they could snog again in a second if they wanted to.

“No,” Jamie lies. His heart is racing. It’s also aching. “I won’t miss you at all.”

“I won’t miss you either,” Gary says, and he just holds him there, outlining little shapes with his fingers against the bare skin of Jamie’s upper arm.

Later, Jamie presents Gary with a bowl and a spoon, along with a nice slice of buttered bread. “Eat up,” he says, sitting down in the chair beside him. “It’s no good if you let it go cold.”

Gary sniffs the bowl, the rich scent of the beef and vegetables filling his nose, making him feel quite warm and very homey. “What is it?” He asks.

“It’s scouse,” Jamie says, shoveling another spoonful into his mouth. Gary raises his eyebrows. “A little something to remember me by.”

 _The_ Manc smiles at him again, and this time there’s fire in those wild dark eyes, fire and fondness and something like love, and Jamie thinks to himself that maybe it’s alright to make a thing out of it. After all, he did just make the bastard some homemade scouse. There’s no other meal on the planet so dear to his heart as that. So he swallows and wipes his mouth on his napkin and says, “I’m still mad at you.”

“I should’ve texted at least,” Gary nods, biting into his bread.

“Or a DM on Twitter,” Jamie sniffs.

“Or that,” Gary agrees, chewing. Jamie fiddles with his spoon. “Will you root for me, Carra?”

“Of course I will, Manc cunt. Valencia’s gonna win the league now that you’re in charge. And when the maths work out in your favor and your lads are lifting trophies, I’ll come ‘round to see. You’ll be dead brilliant, and I don’t mind saying as much to anyone who’ll listen. How’s that for dedication to you?”

Gary blinks, a bit owlishly. “That’s truly admirable of you, considering you were a Culé until an hour ago.”

“Hour and a half,” Jamie corrects him, and beneath the table their feet brush together. Their eyes meet momentarily, and they quickly look away.

“You can stay tonight,” Gary says quietly. 

Jamie hesitates, staring at the bowls on the table. Okay, so maybe he overreacted, maybe he’s got no right to be moody at the loss of a man he’s slept with five— no, _six_ times, since that’s all Gary really is to him, just _the_ Manc he’s been shagging whenever he needs to get off. But that’s not all he is, not really. Gary’s always been so much more than that.

This isn’t Jamie’s kitchen. It’s not his house. Gary’s not his boyfriend. This isn’t even his city. There’s nothing right, nothing familiar or proper about any of it. But there’s two emptied bowls on the table before them, there’s Gary looking at him with those dark eyes that he’s been hung up about for decades now, and they’ve got one last night together. When he stops and thinks, _really_ thinks… there’s only one place in the whole world that feels more like home than when he's with Gary, when it's just them together.

“Alright” Jamie says, lips twitching into a wry smile, one that Gary matches right away. “I’ll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- so the prompt was “carra cooking gaz dinner the night before he goes to spain” and i thought what better recipe for carra to cook than scouse? and as such i found lfc’s very own [club recipe for scouse](http://www.liverpoolfc.com/news/first-team/155827-lfc-reveals-world-s-best-scouse-recipe) which i am planning to test out myself very soon!  
> \- [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_HlPboLRL8) is your musical accompaniment!  
> \- i love you rach i hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
